


The Quiet Game

by Deathtouch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Crying, Father/Son Incest, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Paddling, Parent/Child Incest, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking, Tears, Threats, Threats of Violence, Torture, Whipping, mentions of flaying, past flaying, probably some other stuff I'm forgetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1934934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathtouch/pseuds/Deathtouch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>☛ In which Ramsay brings Reek to a hearing to pass the time, and things go awry.  </p><p>
  <i>Ramsay's thick fingers found his chin again, and he lifted Reek's head, turning it up. "I want my father to know I can serve just as well as he can when he's away," Ramsay said. "That means you mustn't embarrass me, Reek."</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Game

**Author's Note:**

> Without the perfect and amazing [Subwaywolf](http://subwaywolf.tumblr.com/) you would not be here reading this fic today, because he is the prophet of the word of Thramsay and he showed me to the light that is this pairing. Not only that, he put up with all my ridiculous questions on twitter for which I am eternally and earnestly grateful. Oh, and did I mention that he beta'd everything, and improved this fic almost 1000%. Yea. Everyone go say thank you to [Subwaywolf](http://subwaywolf.tumblr.com/).

"Do you want to play a game?" Ramsay asked, his pale eyes practically sparkling.

Reek's fingers fumbled where he was dutifully pinning Ramsay's pink and red cape in place. He heard himself swallow. He didn't know how to answer. Reek couldn't say no, because that would make Ramsay unhappy. He couldn't say yes either, because that would be a lie and lying made Ramsay unhappy. "What sort of game, my lord?" He asked instead. His voice was small and it cracked when he spoke, hoarse from screaming. Not that he'd been screaming much today, but there was still time yet.

“Something to make this hearing more fun.” Ramsay replied.

Reek made himself busy fluffing the cape, making sure it was draped just right when the pink fabric left his hands in a soft swish of air. Ramsay had turned to face him. Suddenly their faces were close enough that Ramsay could have leaned in for a kiss, if he wanted to. Sometimes he did kiss him, but only when Reek was least expecting it.

“As you say, my lord.” Reek bowed his head. He wanted to shrink away.

Ramsay reached out for Reek’s chin with thick fingers, lifting his face up. “You look frightened.” He noticed, smiling. “What are you afraid of?”

Reek hesitated, but in the end he answered honestly. Reek, he was. Loyal Reek. Honest Reek. “Only that I won’t make you happy, my lord.”

Ramsay laughed at him. “My dear Reek.” He said as he tucked back a stray flyaway of Reek’s hair. It was all brittle and white and dirty but Ramsay touched it like it was finer than silk. “You have every right to be afraid.”

Reek felt weak for a moment, like his knees might go out from under him.

“Grab that bottle there, bring it with you, you’ll accompany me to the hearing.” Ramsay ordered. He gave it half a beat before his brow furrowed and his voice became a bark. “What are you waiting for, I’ve given you a command.”

Reek jumped to obey. Good Reek. Obedient Reek. There were a few bottles sitting in the sill of the window. They were made of glass, formed in odd shapes with cork stoppers. Reek had to guess which one he was meant to grab. That could end up very bad for him if he guessed wrong, but that was likely why Ramsay gave him such a vague command to begin with. He liked when things ended up badly for Reek, and it was becoming harder and harder to trick him.

He hurried to follow Ramsay who was already out the door, striding down the hall. Ramsay had thick black boots to carry him through the cold dark halls of the Dreadfort, but Reek was barefoot. It didn’t help that a good few of his toes were missing, which made him just as likely to stumble as keep up. Ramsay’s pink and red cape billowed out behind him, making him seem even bigger than he already was. Ramsay looked just as menacing from behind, his weight coupled with his broad shoulders could have easily been mistaken for muscle.

Reek had seen him without clothes though, so he knew there was as much flesh there as there was true muscle, but Ramsay’s layers of clothing concealed both. A trick. Another trick. A trick to make him seem something that he wasn’t. Just like his playful smile or the shine in his eyes.

“Keep up.” Ramsay tossed the words over his shoulder.

Reek hurried. His gaunt legs ached in his calves and in his thighs, and there was a pain that ran up his back whenever he moved, but he ignored all of that because worse pain would come to him if he couldn’t manage to do something so simple as follow Ramsay down the hallway.

The Dreadfort was a big enough place, but Reek had only ever seen half of it. He was perfectly familiar with the dungeons and torture chambers where they kept the wooden saltires. He knew the great hall where Ramsay paraded him out at dinners for everyone to laugh and sneer at. The only other places he'd been were Ramsay’s own chambers, the kennels, and the kitchens.

Ramsay told him that someday, if he was good enough, he would be allowed in the stables to see after the horses. “You’ll come back to me with the stink of manure on you.” Ramsay had said, laughing at him. “That’ll please you. You won’t smell like the hounds anymore, you’ll smell like the horses.” When Reek didn’t seem pleased at all, Ramsay only continued to tease him. “You have to be careful.” He’d said, lowering his voice like he was about to tell a terrible tale about ghosts and ghouls. “The horses aren’t all girls like the dogs are, they’ve got big cocks they’re like to stick you with.” He ended by giving Reek’s ribs a poke.

As they walked down the main hallway, they passed smaller halls and doorways that Reek had never been through. He would likely never see what was down those corridors or in those rooms, but that was just fine. He might find something he didn’t want to. Reek preferred the places he knew anyhow, he felt safe enough with them – save for the dungeons or saltire rooms.

Once, after having been just released from the dank dark of the dungeons, Ramsay had sent him to the kitchens to fetch something, and Reek had gotten lost. He couldn’t say which corners he’d turned down or how he’d ended up where he had, but when Ramsay found him Reek was all alone in an empty corridor, sobbing. Big, huge, wracking sobs.

Lord Ramsay had softened all at once at the sight of him, and he took Reek into his arms in a warm embrace. Reek sobbed into Ramsay’s chest and on his shoulder, and Ramsay soothed his shaking by rubbing a hand soft and sweet up and down his back. Reek was so scared he would get in trouble, but in the end Ramsay had walked him down to the kitchens hand in hand.

His ring finger had just been removed, sliced clean off, and holding hands had hurt but Ramsay didn’t squeeze hard or torment him any. He was kind and gentle. Ramsay spoke to him like he was a child saying things like “remember this hallway, this is where you turn” and “this is the door to the kitchen, Reek, this one right here”. Reek should have been ashamed, but at the time he had still been gasping from his sobs and his eyes were bleary and he could only be grateful that he wasn’t in trouble.

Ramsay was terrible sometimes, there was no denying it, but only if he was made unhappy. All Reek had to do was keep him happy, and things would be okay. After a flaying, or a beating, Reek need only remember the way Ramsay held him in his arms and soothed his crying.

By the time they reached the great hall Reek was panting and out of breath and Ramsay was a good few paces ahead of him. Ramsay paused and waited by the doorway, and Reek caught up mumbling apologies under his heavy breath.

"You remember why I have to go to hearings, don't you?" Ramsay asked him, like he was asking a slow-witted dog instead of a human person.

Reek thought for a minute. When Ramsay went to a hearing he spent all day in the great hall, and he left Reek alone in his bed chambers to sit and wait for him. Sometimes he came back like a lathered horse in an angry fury, and he would take his anger out on Reek. Other times he simply seemed tired, and Reek would rub the knots out of his shoulders with the fingers he had left while Ramsay drank wine and brooded moodily. There was a reason for it though; a reason Ramsay attended hearings and left him alone to wait all day. He had been told, once, only it was hard to remember.

"Because..." Reek's voice was small, and unsure, "because of your lord father?"

"Yes. Because of my lord father," Ramsay said. "He is Warden of the North now, and I am acting lord of the Dreadfort while he's away."

Reek listened with his head down. A tiny voice in the back of his brain whispered that Ned Stark was Warden of the North, but that voice caused him more pain than Ramsay ever did so Reek stared harder at their feet, determined to ignore it.

Ramsay's thick fingers found his chin again, and he lifted Reek's head, turning it up. "I want my father to know I can serve just as well as he can when he's away," Ramsay said. "That means you mustn't embarrass me, Reek."

Reek nodded just a little, he understood. "Yes my lord."

"Follow orders, stay quiet, and behave."

Reek had the distinct feeling that Ramsay wouldn’t make it as easy as it sounded. He nodded again, though; he would certainly try. "I'll be good." Reek promised. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.

Ramsay brushed his thumb over Reek's bottom lip. It was chapped, and still healing over raw and bloody from how often Reek nervously chewed at it, but Ramsay touched it like it was precious metal. It made Reek want to squirm. Ramsay's eyes were on him, pale and grey and terrible.

"I know you will be," Ramsay murmured. For a moment, Reek thought he might get kissed. He was braced for it, fearfully, but Ramsay only turned away.

Reek hurried to follow him through the door. There were Bolton guards in red and pink posted on the other side of the doorway, and they wrinkled their noses at the smell as Reek entered the room. Reek bowed his head and pretended not to notice their disgust. “Beg pardon, Sers.” He mumbled as he passed. Reek had thought that he might get used to the way people recoiled from him, but he never did.

 “How many?” Ramsay asked as he marched to the head table and sat at the main chair there. It was an ugly twisted thing made of wrought iron. It was as black as Ramsay's hair.

“Seventeen, my lord.” A knight replied. Ramsay made a face.

Reek wasn’t sure where he was meant to go. Usually he was chained up by the door so that his smell wouldn’t bother the feasting guests, but now he was allowed to walk freely throughout the great hall and Reek didn’t know what to do with his new found freedom. He faltered, half way from the door to the head table. There were guardsmen and household servants staring at him, and Reek didn't know where to go. He wished they would stop looking at him.

“To me.” Ramsay told Reek.

Reek hurried to join him, glad for the direction; otherwise he would have been too scared to move from where he had stopped. The seat was up on a raised dais, and Reek stumbled up the steps which made Ramsay laugh. As much as he disliked being laughed at, he would rather Ramsay be laughing than scowling. Most of the time, at least. Reek scuttled into place just behind the chair and he looked down at his feet.

“The bottle?” Ramsay said.

Reek had forgotten he’d been holding it in his hands. He blinked down at the floor for a few moments, not even realizing he’d been spoken to. When it occurred to him that it was _he_ who had the bottle, he startled forward and quickly handed it to Ramsay. “My lord.” He croaked softly as he gave it over.

Ramsay pulled the stopper and waited a second before he laughed. Reek could smell peppermint from where he stood. “Unlucky choice, Reek,” he commented as he returned the stopper to his place. “This will sting.”

Reek’s knees went a little weak again. He fumbled to grab the chair, catching his breath that he’d suddenly lost. “My lord?” He asked fearfully.

“I brought you here so we could play a game, remember?” Ramsay glanced over his shoulder to where Reek was clutching the twisted wrought Iron, a scared look on his face. Reek’s expression made Ramsay smile, an awful sort of smile. “It’s easy, all you have to do is stay quiet.”

They had played this game before; as a matter of fact they played it quite often. It wasn’t easy, no matter what Ramsay said. Staying quiet was hard when there were knives carving into his skin, or needles threatening his soft flesh, or when Damon Dance-For-Me uncoiled his long terrible whip and gave it a crack.

Reek didn’t want to play. He wanted to crawl back to Ramsay's bed chamber and wait there like he always did. It was lonely, and most days he went hungry, but it at least he wouldn't be hurt. Reek knew better than to refuse, of course. It was play the game or be played with in the torture chamber instead. There was little difference in experiences, if truth be told, but that little difference was enough.

"As... as my lord commands." Reek said meekly, dropping his head. Reek, reek. It rhymes with meek. That's who he was - Reek.

"I command you over my knee." Ramsay was suddenly impatient.

Reek flinched, but he shuffled his mangled feet and he went. He knew the position well enough. He draped himself over Ramsay's lap, clumsy and awkward. His hollow belly rested on one thigh and his rib cage the other. His head hung so that he was looking down on the floor, and his ass was unfortunately in the air.

If he were a boy still, Reek might get a good spanking in a position like this. Reek wasn't a boy though; some days he felt like an old man. He felt like he had lived a thousand lives, instead of just the one, all of them a hell.

Ramsay wasn't particularly fond of spankings in truth. Sometimes he made Reek brace against the cold stone wall while he used a paddle or rod on him. Sometimes he used a flexible sharp cane, or a leathery cat-o-nine. Often as not it was Damon, and his long awful bullwhip. It wasn't just Reek's backside that took a beating when he was up against the wall, it was the whole of him. The backs of his thighs, the small of his back, the rest of his back all the way up his shoulder blades. It was all fair game to Ramsay. That wasn't a spanking though, not really, not when welts and bruises covered the whole of him. If Ramsay wanted to see Reek's ass beaten he need only bend him over the desk instead of making him face the wall. The one he never bothered to write at that sat in the corner of his bed chamber. Bent over like that, there was little else to aim at and the whips and canes and rod found his backside and thighs only. Or his balls, back when he'd had them. If Ramsay ordered him to spread his legs they had been just as vulnerable as the rest of him. That was closer to a true spanking, Reek expected.

Only once had Ramsay given him a good hard hand spanking over his knee. It was teasingly that Lord Ramsay did it, calling Reek a naughty or wicked little thing. Reek ended up as blistered and bruised as ever, but being over Ramsay's knee had made it more and intimate somehow and therefore much more terrible. He had been a sniveling sobbing mess when they were done, squirming to get away from Ramsay's lap, and his stinging hand, and the chubby thing poking at Reek's belly where he'd been laying.

It was true, Reek did know this position well, but not from any spankings. This was how Ramsay liked him when he felt like slipping a few fingers inside of him to have a feel around. Reek supposed he preferred Ramsay's thick fingers to his fat cock, but it was only the lesser of two evils. Ramsay's cock tore him bloody, and he was mean when he fucked; mean, and brutal, and he bruised Reek's body from the inside. His fingers did less damage, but they were oddly intimate in the same way an over-the-knee spanking was. Ramsay's fingers were just as awful as his cock, in their own peculiar way.

Reek knew he'd have one of Ramsay's big thick fingers inside of him in a moment, and he closed his weary eyes. _Be quiet_ , he thought. _Play his game, and be quiet._ All he had to do was be quiet, and get through it, and Ramsay would tire of him. He always did.

Reek could smell mint again, stronger than before. Strong enough to overpower his own stench. The smell made his mouth water, hungry for mint leaves to chew on. It made his nose sting as well, sharp and crisp as it was.

Ramsay's hand slid under his breeches. There was a fraying, filthy chord of rope keeping Reek's clothes tied to his waist. Ramsay's hand slipped under it as easy as the worms his lips resembled might pass through dirt and earth. His fingers were wet, Reek could tell, and... cold. Curiously cold. Like he'd plunged them into the banks of an autumn snowdrift.

It wasn't until Ramsay's fingers slid over a healing welt, one where Damon's whip had cracked into his ass cheek and broken the flesh, that Reek realized what it really was. It stung. It burned, searing and terrible like needles stabbing into his poor healing skin. Reek clamped both hands over his mouth, as if the fingers he had left could trap the sounds. It was too late, the scream had reached his throat if not gone passed his lips, and it was loud enough that he knew he'd be in trouble.

Ramsay laughed at him. "This is your fault, Reek. You're the one who chose peppermint."

Ramsay's fat fingers slid up and down the crack of his ass, toying with him, making him wet. Reek squirmed, and held in his whimpers. He'd made a noise already, but the last thing he needed was to make it worse and make more.

"There was cedarwood, and lemon, and clove, and eucalyptus and you choose peppermint." Ramsay told him.

The bottles, the ones Reek had been told to grab from before they left Ramsay's chamber. How was he supposed to know which one was which! Not that the stinging citrus of lemon or the spice of clove would be less any painful. He'd had as good a chance of guessing something that would have hurt him as not. If Reek had chosen one of the kinder bottles, Ramsay would have found a way to make him pay for it. Instead of his fingers, he would have slicked up a sharp stick instead. Or a knife.

 _You're lucky he's bothering with oil at all_ , that terrible voice in the back of his mind told him. It was getting easier and easier to believe things like that. To believe that only getting hit on the mouth instead of a full beating was kindness, and that when Ramsay cradled him and nudged his backside with his hard cock it was because he cared about him. It wasn't luck that he was about to get burned by peppermint oil inside his ass and out. There was no sort of luck there at all, but still Reek found himself agreeing. It was lucky. Ramsay could have done much meaner things.

"Bring the first one in." Ramsay called loudly. He slipped one finger between Reek's ass cheeks, and Reek squeezed his eyes shut in response to the terrible stinging cool. "No squirming, now," Lord Ramsay warned him quietly. "If anyone hears you, the kicking sounds of your ugly feet included, you lose."

Reek wanted to cry, wary of the imminent pain that was coming. Instead he stilled. Good Reek, he was. Good, and loyal, and well behaved. He would play Ramsay's game.

He couldn't see who or what it was that was being brought in first, but he could hear the noises. The household guards shuffling, and the sound of a door opening, and then more feet joining in. The head table blocked his view, it was a solid heavy thing that likely kept him hidden from plain sight as much as it kept him from seeing. If anyone bothered to look hard enough they might see him lying there in Ramsay's lap, but most men dropped their heads at the sight of Ramsay Bolton, less they see his ghost grey eyes staring back at them, cruel and cold as the ice they resembled.

"M’lord," a harrowed old voice began, and that's when Reek felt Ramsay's fat finger touching over his hole. Cold it was at first, but then stinging in pain. Ramsay used him often and left him raw and red and puckered in pain. The last thing he needed was aggravation from burning peppermint.

Reek went stiff, and his jaw clenched, and his broken teeth slotted together in awful ways that pulsed pain through his jaw and face. It was better though, a more manageable pain. Something else he could focus on.

As it turned out, the harrowed old voice belonged to a man who had come to inquire about a piece of land he swore he had claim to. There was some quarrel about his neighbor making use of that land on his own, not that much could be done with frozen earth packed with snow. He had come to beg Ramsay for help.

Ramsay only laughed at him. "Perhaps I'll take your useless spat of land for myself." He said, teasing Reek's burning hole with his fingers.

Reek was braced for Ramsay to thrust his finger in, but it never came.

The first man left, sullen and angry, and a second man was brought in. It was murder the second man was more concerned about, and justice for those who'd done the murdering. He recounted a terrible tale of his poor wife being raped and beheaded by outlaws. Ramsay had him tell it twice, leering like it was a bed time story instead of a nightmarish retelling of this poor man's real life.

Reek only heard half of what the men were bringing to lord Ramsay, distracted and scared as he was. His body was alight with biting cold fire where the peppermint oil had touched his torn and tender skin, and it would only get worse.

Ramsay wasn't an especially patient man, except for when it came to torture. He knew just how long to draw something out, how long a man could stomach any specific type of pain. How long the body could continue before passing out and going black. He could be patient, when he wanted to be. Terribly, unnervingly, horribly patient. In this, he was patient. He teased Reek's poor ass, and only touched at his waiting hole but never entered him.

Not until the fifth of sixth person had come begging. Not until his own patience had worn thin. Not until Reek had been lulled into a false sense of security.

Ramsay stuffed one finger into him suddenly. Reek jolted, meekly, but honestly it wasn't so bad. Thick as his finger was, he'd had bigger things forced into him. With no warning, Reek didn't even think to clench up or resist. (Resisting always made it more painful.) It was almost as if he had gotten off easy, but then Ramsay withdrew his finger and the friction was laced with the pain of peppermint. It stung and burned and big fat tears formed in Reek's eyes. It was inside of him, cold and sharp and terrible. It hurt, it stung, and it needled into his soft sensitive insides.

Reek's chest shook with a sob, but he stayed quiet - as quiet as labored breathing and trembling sobs could be.

In his own deafening silence he could hear some poor soul petitioning Ramsay for help or assistance or whatever it was the common folk petitioned their lords for. Reek couldn't make sense of a single word though, all he knew was the terrible pain cooling through him with needles of ice.

It wasn't until Ramsay snatched up his wrist and wrenched it into a twist that Reek realized he had reached back to try and stop the pain somehow. He was squirming and squabbling so much, he had no idea how he managed to go unnoticed, but as it happened Ramsay only went on finger fucking him and the commoner only continue to pester his lord.

For his part, Reek did say quiet. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his body convulsed and tremored with sobs, but he made little noise if any. Through the stinging and burning and the torturous pace as which Ramsay slowly slid his finger in and out and in again, Reek stayed quiet.

It hardly mattered that Ramsay was raping him. Those attending the hearing could not see what was happening but the household guards beside the head table could. That meant very little though, if anything. Ramsay had fucked him before, and would again. In public, in his bed chamber. It was always humiliating and cruel, but Reek was used to it by now.

There was a time when Reek would have fought it; before. A time when he kicked and screamed and clawed. A time when he had to be chained up or pinned down or tied in place in order for Ramsay to have his way with him. A time when he screamed that Ramsay's cock was too big. There was a time when he begged and pleaded and whimpered for Lord Ramsay not to; that he was too sore, or still bloody, or his insides were sick and aching in pain.

Reek could remember one night when Ramsay took him in front his friends; Sour Alyn, and Damon, and Skinner, and the whole lot of them. He fucked Reek from his seat at the head table, the same one they were at now, only this had happen ages ago. (It couldn't have been ages, really, but some days it felt like it.) That night Reek had been fucked raw, and bloody, and everyone had sneered at and toasted to the sounds of his whimpering and pleading. They wanted to make him whimper and plead too, and it was only lucky for him that Ramsay was jealous and greedy and didn't care to share his toy.

Reek had crawled to Ramsay's feet when it was all over, and they were alone in his bed chamber. "Please." He begged pathetically. "They way they look at me... my lord.. it scares me." He lied. No, it didn't scare him, it humiliated him.

Ramsay laughed at his groveling and pulled up his head to have a look at his face. "What would you have me do? When would I get to make any use of you, if not in front my friends?"

"Alone." Reek had begged him. "Right here, my lord, in your bed chamber. I-I-I could be your bed slave, if you wanted me."

Ramsay had slapped him on the mouth for that. Then hit him again until he was cowering fearfully on the floor. A rotten little whore, Ramsay had called him. A slut, a filthy treacherous harlot. How dare Reek presume to tell him what to do. How dare he assume he was worth as much as a bed servant. He was lower than that, uglier and smellier and missing too many fingers and toes to be more than a hole that Ramsay could stuff whatever he wanted into whenever he wanted.

Ramsay fucked him anywhere but his bedroom for a long while after that. Grunting filthily in the main hall for everyone to see, or pressed up against the tapestries that lined the hallways while servants passed, or ass up with his face down in the muck and mire of the kennels with the dogs looking on and howling at the two of them.

Roose's return to the Dreadfort for a fortnight had put a stop to all that, less Ramsay get caught. Lord Bolton must have known what his bastard son was up to, but so long as he didn't see it with his own (oddly pale) eyes, he never addressed it.

As scared as Reek was of Roose, all quiet and ominous as the man could be, he had never been so glad to see him. Even Ramsay's terrible mood, the one that always came in the presence of his father, could not diminish how glad he was not to be fucked up and down the Dreadfort's halls and rooms.

A finger fucking in the middle of a hearing was nothing in comparison to things that had been done to him in the past. Reek had no cause to fight it, really. He didn't kick or scream or raise one word in protest over a few fingers. He wouldn't go groveling and begging Ramsay not to when this was all over either. Reek, he was. Good Reek. Loyal Reek. He knew to come quietly with his head bowed politely and to willingly let Ramsay have his way.

No, it scarcely mattered that he was being fucked or that anyone could see it. It was the peppermint oil that made him suffer. Reek wasn't sure he could take much more of the stinging pain that plagued him. Well, perhaps he could, if only he could scream and cry and kick his feet to will the pain away and make it easier.

Just when Reek thought it couldn't possibly hurt any worse than it already did, Ramsay stuffed in a second finger and stretched him wider. Were they not playing their little game, Reek would be howling. Instead he clenched his teeth and twisted his captured wrist and prayed and prayed and prayed for the worst of the stinging to pass.

Ramsay scissored his fingers, twisted them, slid them in and out. He tortured poor Reek with the stinging oil. Reek had no idea how many petitioners had come and gone. He had no idea how long he'd been laying over Ramsay's lap. He had no idea how his insides and his aching hole could endure such pain. He had no idea how much longer he could keep quiet...

In a calamitous crescendo to the stinging and burning and Ramsay's finger fucking, a side door to the main hall suddenly flew open like shutters in a storm. Ramsay startled, his fingers twitching in a way most painful, and Reek yelped despite himself.

When he lifted his head he could see guards scuttling through the wide door. It was the same door he was usually chained to during feasts, flung open just the same. Of all people it was Roose Bolton standing there on the threshold, impassive as ever at the sight of his son in his seat with some ugly thing crying in his lap.

Reek didn't know much, but even he knew Lord Bolton was not due home today. As much was evident Ramsay's surprised tone, and the way he said the word, "Father."

"See him out." Roose said quietly, inclining his head towards a man who'd come to beg audience. The guards flanking Roose hurried to obey.

Roose did not take his eyes off of his son and, even though it wasn't Reek he was looking at, Reek still wanted to shrink away. It was enough to make him forget about the burning and stinging and the unpleasant fingers inside of him. Until Ramsay pulled his fingers free, and Reek whimpered uselessly. He had already lost the game, what did it matter now. He still hurt, even without the constant friction, and it was just so easy to let his trapped whimpers and cries loose from his lips.

Roose watched as Ramsay disentangled his hand from Reek's breeches. It was like he was incriminating himself by pulling it free. Of course it had been stuffed down there, but seeing it emerge from Reek's dirty clothes was different from when it was hidden away somehow.

Ramsay opened his mouth to speak, but Roose beat him to it. "What's all this?" He asked. A vague question. It would be curious to see how Ramsay would answer.

Reek felt the hold on his wrist slipping, and he slid his arm free. "I am acting Lord of the Dreadfort while you're away." Ramsay explained, as if his father did not possibly know that. His voice was on edge, and Reek could feel him tense, ominously. "I was attending a hearing. I..."

"Were you?" Roose interrupted curiously. Well. Actually not particularly curiously at all. "It seems to me you're attending to that creature in your lap and little else."

Ramsay laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh, it was cold and bitter and mean. Roose did nothing in response, but there was one guard left standing by his side who recoiled like he’d heard a scream rather than laughter. “Reek? He’s only here for a bit of fun.” Ramsay said. He gave Reek’s withered hair a sharp tug, so much different from the way he’d touched it softly and sweetly earlier. Reek was forced to turn his face up, so that Roose could see the tears on his cheeks. “Aren’t you, Reek?”

“Yes my lord.” Reek choked out in answer, the stinging pain that still plagued him made him squirm.

“Ramsay, I don’t have to tell you what I think of your fun.” Roose said dismissively, taking steps toward the dais. His eyes had not left his son’s face. He paid little attention to Reek at all.

“You could always join me, instead of disapproving so often. Who knows, you might actually enjoy yourself for once.” Ramsay laughed at his father again. He loosed his grip on the brittle white hair in his hands and gave Reek a sudden and sharp shove. His interest in keeping Reek in his lap had ended rather abruptly, and Reek found himself clattering to the floor. His knees were weak with pain and he certainly couldn’t stand, so he went crawling. Ramsay didn’t have to say ‘leave my sight, I’ll deal with you later’ for Reek to know that’s what he meant. A sharp shove like that only meant the one thing, Reek had learned. Good Reek, he was. Loyal Reek. He would go, and he wouldn't disturb Ramsay again until he was summoned.

Reek met the stairs that lead down from the dais with a brave face, there on his hands and knees. He’d need to crawl down them, since there was no wall to lean on and nothing to pull himself up with. It was hard standing up on his own these days. He just so happened to notice a hand reaching out to him. Reek hesitated, a sudden dread filling him.

“M-my lord.” he whispered, taking Roose’s hand and pulling himself up with it. It would be worse to deny him.

Reek meant to keep his head bowed, and to keep on walking, and to get away from the two of them before something terrible happen to him. Except Roose blocked his path, standing square at the bottom of the steps. Reek made the mistake of glancing up. Roose was looking straight at him.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t find a woman to have fun with.” Roose said mildly. His gaze shifted fluidly to Ramsay over Reek’s shoulder, and he dropped the mangled hand he'd had grasped in his pink glove.

“Have you ever been with a man, father?” Ramsay asked. Sneering and dangerous. If he was trying to tempt Roose into rage, he was doing a good job of it. Reek was sure that at any moment the quiet placidity would crumble and fury would come steeping out instead. As it was, Ramsay only continued his taunting and Roose only continued staring. “You could try that too; something else you might find yourself enjoying.”

Reek fled then. He tripped on the steps and he had to push passed Roose’s shoulder to go running out the side door, but he went. His heart was pounding and his backside was screaming in pain, but he had to leave before he ended up on the receiving end of some Bolton’s wroth. The air was cold and the frozen ground felt like daggers under his heels. Now that he wasn’t trapped between Ramsay, or his father, or either of their terrible pale eyes, Reek remembered the peppermint sting still eating away at him and he allowed himself a good cry of pain as he ran.

The garrison who had returned with Roose Bolton went from unloading their pack horses and going about their business to staring at him. He must have looked like a blubbering fool, whimpering and stumbling along. None of them were wrinkling their noses for once, but Reek would rather have the whole seven kingdoms sniff and scoff at him than to go on burning with peppermint. He stumbled to the nearest bank of snow, stacked high in one corner of the yard where it had been shoveled out of the way to make a path. He untied the frayed chord at his waist, pushed down his breeches, and sat in it like it was a privy. The cold was awful, but it soothed away some of the sting. Soldiers laughed at him, and more shouted curses. Reek put his face in his ruined hands, and he sobbed, and he didn’t care. If they knew how it felt, they’d be doing the same thing as him. Surely.

It wasn’t until his ass was numb with cold that he struggled to his feet again. He wandered off towards the kennels, tear tracks smudging the dirt on his face. The dogs whined at the smell of peppermint that lingered on him, but they accepted him like they always did. Reek curled up in their midst to keep warm and Alison, one of the hounds, licked the smudges from his face.

There was nowhere else for him to go. When Ramsay gave him a shove, and pushed him on his way, he meant for him to stay gone awhile. The cooks hit him with spoons if he came anywhere near the kitchen. The stable boys shouted and threw acorns at him. The servants pushed him out of every room, complaining he turned the rushes sour. It was the kennels where he belonged, when he wasn’t curled up at the foot of Ramsay’s bed or rotting away in the dungeons.

Reek didn’t mean to fall asleep. He meant to keep warm, and find some fresh snow to clean his stinging ass out with when no one was looking. Ramsay had exhausted him though, and Roose had scared him half to death, and when his heart finally stopped racing it was just so easy to nod off.

Night had fallen when he was awoken. Some sorry servant with a torch in one hand kicked at the kennel door. “Up, you smelly sack of shit.” He grunted. The hounds bayed and bared their teeth. “Lord Bolton wants to see you.”

Reek bolted upright, very suddenly awake. The pit of his stomach twisted in a knot. He had lost the game earlier. He’d made all that noise after Roose had come barging in on them. He’d be punished now, he was sure of it. “Is my lord Ramsay in his bed chamber?” He asked, in a croaked and gruff voice. If he was going to be punished for losing, it was just as likely that he’d have to report to one of the saltire rooms instead. He was Reek, after all. Good Reek. Obedient Reek. He went when summoned, even if he did not want to.

"Ramsay?" The man with the torch scowled. "Lord Bolton, you idiot. Roose Bolton."

Reek thought he might be sick.

He struggled to his feet, and the kennel was opened for him to leave while the man with the torch pushed back the dogs. As much as he didn't want to go, he knew better than to keep anyone waiting. It couldn't be so bad, could it? It wasn't like Roose would be punishing him for losing any games.

Maybe he'd punish Reek for something else.

Reek shivered, and stumbled. The servant with the torch had gone off in a different direction, leaving Reek to find his way through the yard in the dark. He knew the path well enough. Within the Dreadfort there were torches burning in sconces, and the stone walls broke the wind so it was warmer inside. Still, the floors were cold and he could not stop the gooseflesh that pebbled up his arms and legs.

Roose's chambers were tucked away at the top of short fat tower. Reek struggled with the stairs, stopping to catch his breath after every other step. _Just turn back_ , that terrible voice told him. _Turn back and run to Ramsay and beg him to keep you safe. He will. He'll hold you if you cry, and he'll pet your brittle hair, and he'll kiss you on the mouth if he feels the mood is right for it._ He could do it. He could turn right around and hobble down the stairs and beg Ramsay for help.

Reek pressed onward. He was lying to himself, and he knew it. Ramsay might keep him safe from Roose, but surely there would be no holding or hugging or hair petting. Reek would get a beating for disobeying a summons, and nothing else if he was lucky. He didn't like it when Ramsay kissed or held him anyhow, except for that one time. Every time since Reek had been distrustful and uncertain; suspicious of the meaning behind such kindnesses.

It was better just to go in and see what Roose wanted. Maybe he needed an extra pair of hands to help with his leeches, and Reek's fumbling missing fingers would amuse him.

Reek's face was bright red when he finally reached the door to Roose's chambers. His underarms were wet with sweat, and he knew he smelled sour and awful, and under it all was the lingering hint of peppermint. Reek was still catching his breath as he knocked on the door. There was still time to back out, and run fleeing like he had earlier, but he steadied himself. He might collapse climbing down the stairs so soon after climbing up them, and was there ever a poorer escape them one spent tumbling down a stairwell?

Roose must have been alone, because he was the one who opened the door instead of a servant. He peered out at Reek, who was staring down at the floor. "Come in." He said, in the soft way he spoke.

Roose's bed chamber was clean and neat if not a little empty. There was parchment at his desk, along with a quill and ink. There were candles burning in the dimness. There was a small shelf of books in one corner, and a harp in the other. Odd, because there was no indication at all that Lord Bolton could play. So far as Reek could tell he wasn't particularly fond of music either. Roose Bolton didn't seem particularly fond of anything, if truth be told. His bed was made up nicely, the rushes were fresh and new. It was just a normal room, so why did Reek feel so afraid?

Sometimes Ramsay would toy with him, and leave a whip or switch displayed prominently on his bed. Either Reek would enter the room and see it first thing upon stumbling in, or he'd be stuck with it all day. Ramsay would leave to attend hearings or other business, and Reek would be shut away in his bed chamber with whatever device Ramsay intended to torture him with later that day.

Once Reek had taken leave of his senses and chucked a paddle out the window. It was an awful thing, studded with black nails and rusted with blood. Half the day he had sat staring at it, wishing it away with his mind. Then he tried to hide it. First he tried to hide it under the pillows, then under the blankets. It was no good, he could see the lump where he'd hidden it each time.

Reek hid it behind the desk Ramsay never wrote at after his poor attempts at hiding it on the bed. That went a little better. It certainly wasn't visible. Servants kept coming and going outside the door though, and Reek had been sure it was Ramsay each time. Every pair of feet that shuffled close filled him with terrible dread. He was so impossibly scared. He knew he'd be caught, and he knew Ramsay would find the paddle under the desk. He had to get rid of it entirely.

Reek tried sliding it through one of the arrow slits that lined the walls, but the nails were too long and the paddle got stuck. For a terrible minute Reek couldn't manage to wrench it from the arrow slit either. He was nearly sick at the thought of Ramsay walking in to find the paddle sticking out of the wall. How was Reek supposed to explain that; the evidence of his dire plan clear as day. Reek did manage to wiggle it loose though. A smarter man might have given up then. Reek was too far in to the fury and panic of trying to rid himself of the awful nail studded paddle that he kept going; out did himself even.

There was an old red stained glass window that hadn't been opened in a hundred years. There was a latch to show that it could be opened and closed, but Reek did not so much as see any hinges. No one even knew if the window could still open or not. The ingenuity of the desperate was the key to unlocking it, it seemed. Reek could not say how he got the window open, only that it included beating on the thing with his feeble fists and the frantic work of his fingers. He had more back then than he did now.

Reek still remembered the cool air that kissed the sweat on his brow when he finally got the window open. It had made the fire in the hearth waver, and it gave Reek a good shiver. He shoved the studded paddle out the window and slammed it shut and practically collapsed on the floor in contentment.

Ramsay's bed chamber was not up in a squat tower like Roose's was though. When Ramsay returned to find his studded paddle missing, all he had to do was circle around outside the castle wall to find it nestled in a scrub brush just below his window. After he tore apart his bed chamber and tried to beat the story out of Reek first.

Reek's punishment had been to carry the paddle around in his mouth for a whole week afterwards. It made his jaw and teeth ache in pain, and his neck grew stiff and sore from holding up the extra weight. If anyone asked him what he was doing carrying around a plank of nails, it was Reek's job to explain that he had misbehaved and they could swat at him with it if they wanted to. Anywhere they liked. Reek had never been so bloody in his life than he had in that week, he still had scars from where the nails had raked his skin or stuck in too deep.

Reek had thought that maybe the servants and guards would just ignore him like they usually did but once beating him with a studded paddle was on the table they all seemed to want a piece. Ramsay had to put a stop to the "anywhere you like" part though. Reek came back to him after the first night of his punishment with blood dripping in his eyes and matted in his hair. Then the rule became "anywhere you like, except for the head" which some guards and soldiers did not listen to. They thought Reek was lying, trying to save what was left of his ugly face.

Reek expected most of them didn't hate him, but instead they hated Ramsay. They took their anger out one nail-studded swat at a time. Surely some thought if they swung hard enough they might do some real damage, and Ramsay would be unhappy to find his pet Reek busted up and broken. Reek was still standing in the end, and Ramsay as smug as ever.

Reek definitely learned his lesson. He never tried to hide anything of Ramsay's ever again... or chuck anything out the window.

Reek felt as scared now as he had that day. When he looked to the bed there were no nail-studded paddles waiting for him, only a rich red blanket. Roose pressed his hand kindly to the small of Reek's back, as if to move him along, but Reek startled instead. He jumped as high as his weak legs would allow and scuttled a few steps away.

"My apologies." Roose said softly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Sorry, my lord, sorry." Reek croaked in reply. He wasn't sure what he was sorry for, but he was sure he should say it.

Roose patiently waited through Reek's groveling. "I need you to deliver a message, to my son." He watched Reek blink down at the floor, and when there came no reply Roose continued. "Can you manage that?"

"Message." Reek repeated the word. He lifted his eyes enough to find Roose Bolton's shoulders. He could deliver a message. "Yes, my lord."

"Good." Roose inclined his head to the desk.

Reek had already seen the parchment there. He stumbled over to find the message, so that Roose need not trouble himself. They had not trusted him with letters in a good long time, so it was odd to be allowed as much here and now. The scraps on the table were blank though, with nothing written on them.

“M-my lord?” Reek tried to say, but his voice caught in his throat and he made a funny whispery noise instead.

Roose’s hand returned to the small of his back, pressing gently, urging Reek to bend over. Reek found himself trembling, allowing himself to be pushed into place. He practically went limp. Roose was not rough with him, the way Ramsay was, but still he shook in fear. Maybe this was only a bad dream. Maybe he was still asleep, out in the kennel with the dogs. There was no way Roose Bolton would possibly want him…

A message, he had said. That’s what this was. Just a message. Wants had nothing to do with it.

The parchment on the desk became blotted with Reek's tears. “My lord, please. _He’ll kill me_.” He whispered. He did not resist though. Roose did not seem like an especially big or strong man but Reek knew he couldn't take him. When Roose’s careful hands plucked at the dirty rope chord around his waist and untied it, Reek did nothing.

“That would be one way to be rid of you.” Roose said thoughtfully. “My intention, however, is not that you should die.”

Without the rope to keep his clothes in place, the loose fabric fell to his knees, and Reek’s bare skin was on display. Not that Roose stood looking at him. Ramsay did that sometimes, forced him to disrobe and laughed at his scars or the shape of his body. No, Roose wasn’t interested in any of that. He was too busy freeing his cock from his own clothes. He wasted little time, and even fewer words. What was there to say, anyway? The message was clear on its own.

“Please don’t.” Reek begged. He had not begged like this in so long, it was almost as if he had forgotten how. He knew nothing he could say would stop what was happening, the pleading was useless, but he had to try. It was not Roose he was scared of hurting him, but Ramsay. There weren’t words for how angry Ramsay would be when he found out.

Roose Bolton, it appeared, did not care. He spread Reek with a hand, lined up his hard cock, and pushed in. Of all things, it tingled. It hurt too, because like his son Roose had little interest in slicking Reek up with anything to ease the way. There was more to it than that though. The last lingerings of peppermint were still there, and the sudden friction sparked them to life. It didn’t sting the way it had before, but the sensation was odd enough that Reek would prefer not to be feeling it. Roose seemed not to notice, or if he did there was no indication.

Ramsay’s cock was thicker, but Roose’s was longer. Long enough that Reek began to whimper all at once. Roose pressed deeper into him than Ramsay ever did. He was kinder and gentler than Ramsay ever was, but that didn’t mean Roose was in any way kind or gentle. Roose held on to his narrow hips, and he fucked Reek slow and steady. Reek cried out, and he made low noises in his throat, because that was all he could do.

By the time Roose was done, the whole room smelled like peppermint, and Reek felt the raw tingling sharper than ever. Thankfully it wasn’t as awful as the stinging that had plagued him earlier in the day. Roose finished with a soft sigh before he carefully pulled out. When the cool air met his gaping hole, wet with seed, Reek felt the tingling sharpen a new and he gasped.

“Can you keep all that inside of you long enough to reach my son’s chambers?” Roose asked him, rather plainly. He was putting his cock away so casually it was almost as if they had not had sex at all.

Reek only whimpered pitifully in reply. Roose might as well ask him whether he could hang himself from a gallows instead. The result would certainly be the same, though the gallows less painful.

“…Can you?” Roose asked, a hint of impatience in his tone. “Or should I find some cork to stop you with, like a wine bottle?”

Reek shuddered. “Y-es. Yes, my lord.” He said in a small voice. “I mean no. No, my lord. No cork. I-I-I can keep… keep it inside.”

“Good.”

 _Good, now leave_ , was what he really meant. Reek wasn’t sure he could will his feet to move. The prospect of going down all those stairs was an exhausting one, but the real horror was waiting for him beyond that. When Reek did not move on his own, Roose bent to lift the waistband of his filthy breeches and neatly slide them back into place. He even wrapped the chord of rope around Reek’s waist, fingers brushing over his soft belly. Reek began to cry.

“Lord Bolton…” he tried to protest, his words were closer to that of a mouse squeaking. _You don’t understand_ , he wanted to say. _You don’t know what he’ll do to me_. Reek didn’t have a second set of balls for Ramsay to castrate, or another cock for him to skin and sever but that didn’t mean the punishment would be any less severe.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this.” Roose told him. Reek wasn’t sure if the Lord of the Dreadfort truly sounded a little sad, or if he was imagining as much. The sympathy made him want to crumble to the floor and weep. It was lucky he had been bent over the desk after all, at least it held him up some. Lucky. Luck it was that left him the victim of countless rapings and a man about to meet his doom. If that’s what luck was, Reek was the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, surely “I did not want to hurt you, Theon…”

Reek jolted like he'd been struck, and burst into sobs. “No!” He twisted away from Roose’s touch. “Reek.” He cried pitifully, moaning like he was in pain. “Reek.”

Roose unhanded him, slightly taken aback. He watched Reek sink to the floor, choking and coughing and croaking words through his sobs. Good reek, loyal reek. Reek, reek. All the words it rhymed with. Reek, he was. Reek. He wasn’t Theon. Not any longer. Theon had been stripped of flesh and fingers, he’d been beaten and abused. He was gone. He died somewhere in the dungeons, or tied to a saltire. Reek was nothing like him. He didn’t fight, or spit, or curse Ramsay’s name the way Theon had. He behaved, and he did as he was told, and he was good.

“Enough,” Roose said, after watching him sob and shake awhile. Reek’s breath turned to desperate gasping, and his voice became shrill. He couldn’t seem to curl up tight enough. He did not stop sobbing.

Roose had to summon guards to carry him away. They dragged him down the stairs; his mangled feet hitting each step. He struggled in their grasp. “Reek.” He sobbed to them, trying to make them understand.

The guards dumped him at Ramsay's door. There was a small discussion about whether or not they should knock, but in the end they left Reek there on the floor and walked away.

Reek couldn't see through the tears in his eyes, but he reached out blindly and found the door with his fingers. He sobbed, and scratched, and tried to pound with his fists but he was frail and weak and barely made any noise at all. It was likely his crying that brought Ramsay to the door, if anything.

“Reek?” He said at the sight of him, there on the floor.

Reek sobbed in relief to hear his own name. That was right. Reek. He was Reek. Not Theon. “I didn’t want to.” He cried, throwing himself at Ramsay’s feet. Theon would have lied. Theon would have crawled back to the kennels, and he would have prayed for Ramsay to never find out. Theon was bad, and terrible, and he wasn’t loyal to Ramsay like Reek was. “I didn’t want him to, my lord, I swear. I’m yours, my lord. I’m yours. I’m your Reek.”

“Stop sobbing, will you?” Ramsay groaned, voice thick with disgust. He disentangled his feet from where Reek was bowing over them, and he gave Reek a swift kick in the shoulder for his trouble. “I didn’t send for you, so you’ve no reason to be here disturbing me like this. Get out of my sight, and go back to the dogs before I become angry.”

Reek cried and did not move. Which would be worse, not delivering Roose’s message and angering Roose or disobeying Ramsay’s order to leave and angering Ramsay? Roose might call him that other name again, if he did not do as he was told. Reek choked on his words. “M-message.” He gasped out, body shaking. “I have a message, my lord.”

“…Spit it out then,” Ramsay snapped, impatiently.

If Roose had fucked his mouth instead, Reek might have had to.

Reek didn’t have to do any spitting though. He didn’t even have to say a word. He reached to untie the rope, reminding himself of how gentle Roose had been touching him. He felt sick. He pushed his dirty breeches away, and without the fabric to block it the scent of peppermint tinged sex filled the air. His thighs were a slick sticky mess now.

Ramsay drew back, repulsed. He had to circle around Reek’s body, shaking as he cried on the floor, to see the whole of it. “What have you done?” He whispered.

“I didn’t want to!” Reek broke out in sobs again. He hadn’t wanted it! He had begged Roose, even when he knew that begging was futile. He had begged! He hadn’t fought though, he hadn’t fled, he hadn’t even squirmed in protest the way he did with Ramsay sometimes and he felt guilty for all of that now. All he’d done was beg. Loyal Reek, he called himself. Obedient and good and loyal. If he was really loyal he wouldn’t have walked up those stairs, or knocked on the door, or gone limp when Roose had pushed him over the desk. He should have fought harder to belong to Ramsay, and only Ramsay. No wonder Roose had called him that other awful name.

“Forgive me!” Reek wailed, reaching out for Ramsay with his mangled hand. Ramsay stepped on it.

“Get up.” He snarled.

As soon as his fingers were free from under the heel of Ramsay’s boot, he pulled his arm back and struggled solemnly to his feet. Tears were still streaming from his eyes, blurring his vision, and he was hiccupping now instead of shaking with sobs but the tone in Ramsay’s voice had put a stop to his screaming. When he couldn’t get to his feet fast enough, Ramsay grabbed the hair on his head and yanked. He pulled Reek to his feet and out the door.

Reek struggled with the steps again, but it was mostly Ramsay dragging him this time. Ramsay dragged him up the way the guards had dragged him down. They had held him by his arms, but Ramsay had him by his scalp. One way was less painful than the other, but Reek deserved the pain. If he ever wanted Ramsay to forgive him he would have to endure a lot more pain than this.

He wished they weren’t going to see Roose again. He wished the ugly knot of dread filling his stomach and making him sick would go away. He wished he could keep up with Ramsay’s fast pace, and he wished he didn’t trip on every step or crack his knees hard against the stairwell as he fell. The last time he had wished this hard about anything, it was that awful nail studded paddle. Reek had wished it gone, and seen it out the window. If only it was as easy to chuck Roose Bolton out the window…

Ramsay didn’t knock on the door when he reached it, he kicked it in. Just as soon as it swung open Reek was being tossed inside like a dirty rag instead of a human person. He broke his fall with his elbows, and his chin, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Through a ringing in his ears he could hear Ramsay shouting.

“What do you think you’re doing!” He demanded of his father.

Roose had been standing beside the window, gazing out listlessly. He was probably waiting for Ramsay to come knocking. (Or kicking, as it happened.) He blinked over at his son, and said nothing. Not until Ramsay plucked the pot of ink from his desk and threw it at the wall. The glass shattered, and black ink exploded everywhere. “There’s no need for that,” Roose scolded. “You’re the one who suggested it. I might enjoy myself is what you said, if I recall.”

Ramsay bristled, and tensed. There was nothing else for him to throw, so he dropped his voice low and fixed Roose with the most dangerous glare he could manage. “Not him.” He spoke. All the loathing in the world was packed into those two words. Reek cowered at the sound of it.

“My apologies.” Roose shrugged. “Was there some other man you meant for me to try?” He asked. “Yourself, perhaps?”

Ramsay drew back like a man who’d wandered too close to a cliff’s edge. “You wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t enjoy your friend as much as you seemed to think I would, sadly.” Roose continued, as polite and plain as ever. “Then again, I wasn’t using my fingers quite the same way you were this morning.”

“I’m not fifteen anymore.” Ramsay warned him.

“Good.” Roose said. “Maybe now that you’re older and wiser you’ll have the good sense to do as you’re told.”

They stared at each other. Ramsay was blistering and seething with rage. Roose stiff and civil and quiet. Reek held his chin, and stared at their feet. He sniffled and swallowed his whimpers. He did not know, exactly, what was going on between the two of them but he wished he did not have to bear witness to it.

“On the bed.” Roose inclined his head.

“No.” Ramsay denied him.

“…On the desk, then? The way I took your pet?” He seemed disappointed.

Ramsay balled in his hands into fists. “What if I leave? What would you do then, father? Drag me back and hold me down?” He spat on the floor.

“I’m too old and thin for such follies.” Roose sighed. “But there are soldiers in my garrison that wouldn’t mind holding you down, I have no doubt. Should I summon them?”

Ramsay was tensed in a way that Reek recognized. Tight, and stiff, and sparking with the fire of a predator about to lunge and attack. When provoked enough, Ramsay was like to snap.

Reek had seen it happen. One of the dogs in the kennels was named after a little blonde girl called Alison that had provoked Ramsay in such a way. She had not meant to, Reek thought. She was only a servant girl, but she dragged her feet when she walked in a way that Ramsay said he found irritating. He scolded and hit her for it, but the girl could not help herself. That was only part of the problem though, the real mistake she made was being stubborn. "No" was her favorite word.

Ramsay had already been in a foul mood when Alison came shuffling into his bed chamber, dragging her feet. The poor thing had only come to deliver fresh water and more wine and when Ramsay asked for her to complete an entirely different task she had said "no." No, of all things. _No_. A smarter girl would have said "I'm sorry, lord Ramsay. There are other tasks I'm meant to complete, I'll fetch another servant to see it done." A smarter girl wouldn't have been pounced on, and beaten into the floor. A smarter girl wouldn't have had her body defiled. A smarter girl wouldn't have ended up with a dog named after her.

That’s where Ramsay was now, poised and taut and ready to pounce. Reek was sure it would happen. He could practically taste it… or maybe it was just blood on his tongue that he was tasting? He had bitten it when his chin collided with the floor. Roose was not like to go down the same way the girl had, but Ramsay was bigger and stronger and he would end up the winner. He always did. In his games, Ramsay always won.

Ramsay didn’t end up lunging or attacking anything. His shoulders slumped and the tension that surrounded him fell away, fading into nothing. He stalked to the desk and braced his hands at the edge of the wood.

Reek didn’t understand. That… that wasn’t right. Ramsay shouldn’t be doing that.

Roose followed after him. His hand found the small of Ramsay’s back, and he pushed him down the same way he had pushed Reek not an even an hour ago. Ramsay did not go limp, though. He didn’t whimper or plead either. He leaned down on his elbows begrudgingly and tossed the words “get on with it” over his shoulder instead. Roose wrapped his hands sweetly around Ramsay’s waist, in the same way he’d done to Reek. The same way that had made Reek feel so ill. Ramsay’s clothes did not slide away as easily as Reek’s baggy breeches had. Roose had to tug to reveal the pale, bare flesh of Ramsay’s behind.

Reek had seen Ramsay without clothes before. Often, as a matter of fact. He wasn’t a stranger to his naked ass either. Reek had been given the distinct honor (Ramsay's words, exactly) of giving it a lick once. Ramsay decided he didn’t like having a tongue anywhere aside from his cock and balls though, and it only ever ended up being that one lick.

There was nothing distinctly honorable about the way Ramsay was exposed now. It felt all wrong. It looked all wrong.

“You.” Roose said.

Reek preferred ‘you’ to what he had been called earlier, but he shied away from the sudden attention. It had almost been like he wasn’t there until now, and Reek preferred it that way. He made a soft noise “mf” to show he’d heard.

“Come open your mouth.” Roose ordered. He held out his hand with his palm up. Two of his fingers were curled in, and the other two were casually pointing towards Reek’s confused face.

No. He wouldn’t. He let Roose order him around the once before, and look what it had gotten him. He wanted no part in this.

“Or they go in dry.” Roose pointed out.

Reek felt stricken. He looked to his lord Ramsay for help. He didn’t know what to do. Ramsay would not look at him though. Reek hesitated once, and then again, and then he crawled close enough that he could suckle Roose’s fingers into his mouth. In they went, past his chapped lips and broken teeth. Reek slavered them with spit, wetting as much as he possibly could. Reek knew how badly it hurt to be fucked dry, he’d felt as much earlier when Roose had put his cock in with no prep at all. He wouldn’t see Ramsay suffer the same. He wouldn’t. Reek, he was. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.

Roose’s fingers left one hole for another. Reek could not suffer to see it happen. He turned away, but he could still hear Ramsay grunt. Roose was as slow and methodical with his fingers as he was with his cock, Reek could tell by the sounds. For a long time he listened to the way they slid wetly in and out. The same way Ramsay had fingered him this morning. An invasive thought wondered if Roose twisted and scissored his fingers the same way too.

After a while Ramsay’s grunts turned into uncertain, sharp breaths. Then it was gasps that sounded suspiciously like moans. It didn’t matter whether he was grunting or groaning though. Reek wanted to cover his ears and hide his head. The worst was when Ramsay shuddered, and his fingers scratched to clutch at the edge of the desk, and he did moan in earnest. A louder, more desperate moan than Reek had ever heard from him before.

“Have I made my point?” Roose asked.

“Yes, father,” Ramsay answered, breathless.

Roose pulled his fingers free, and went to the basin of water to wash them. Ramsay caught his breath and stilled his wobbly knees. Eventually he did move to pull up his breeches and hide his nudity. If Reek had looked, he might have seen the evidence of what had happened there on the desk. Messy and white against the dark color of the wood.

“See yourself out.” Roose said. “And take that thing with you.”

The last descent down the stairs was the hardest for Reek. His head ached, his ass was sore, his chin and elbows smarted in pain, his tongue throbbed in his mouth, his legs refused to carry him. He leaned heavily on Ramsay, and Ramsay took his sweet time. Reek thought he saw a limp in his gait, but maybe he was imaging things. He hoped he was.

“Do you want to play a game?” Ramsay whispered to him, when they were alone in his bed chamber. His pale eyes were dull.

Reek's fingers fumbled where he was dutifully disrobing Ramsay's pink and red clothes. He heard himself swallow. He didn't know how to answer. He was weary, and tired of games, and he could see that Ramsay was too...

"What sort of game, my lord?" He asked instead.

“The quiet game.” Ramsay said. He reached out for Reek’s cheek with his palm, and lifted his face so they could see eye to eye. “The one where you never tell anyone what you just saw.”

They had not played this game before. Reek nodded anyway. Good Reek, he was. Loyal Reek. He wouldn't tell.

Ramsay leaned in then, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading
> 
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